


Coming Home

by brokenEisenglas



Series: The Simple Life [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Hurt Tony Stark, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Infinity War, alternating pov, sad Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:45:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: The Second Battle has come and gone, and while the world, in fact the Universe, celebrates, it is within the walls of Wakanda's palace medical facility that the Avengers find themselves recovering. For Steve, and many of the others, these are the weeks that follow.They had known that the cost would be great, a high price to pay.But, was it worth it?





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, readers!
> 
> I've been working on this project since before I posted the "first" fic: originally titled Home, now titled: Here to Stay.
> 
> This has been months in the making, with a lot of hardship and struggles, love and hate. It's a bit self-indulgent. Slower paced. Angsty.
> 
> I do have a few warnings:
> 
> 1\. Even though this is not Endgame compliant, it has some elements that have ended-up similar to what may or may not happen in the movie. The commercials for the movie have had little bearing on the fic, and the movie even less so. If anything, the movie coming out made me kick it in gear and finish this monster.
> 
> 2\. This is primarily from Steve's POV. There are some moments that reference Civil War, and he is in a dark place. He's feeling guilty. They all are. And, this isn't meant to bring too much to bear about that movie. I, personally, feel more like how Rhodey feels in this story; there could have been an easier resolution. So, warning made, please don't make a few conversations in this into more than what they are: Characters dealing with their current situation.
> 
> 3\. This is the prequel to Here to Stay, but has been written second. I had this idea first, but didn't know where to take it until finishing the sequel.
> 
> 4\. Sadness. Guilt. Depression and anxiety. Mentions of bodily harm to a teammate. Flashbacks and flashback-style memories. If you have any of these as triggers, but still want to know what happens in this, comment or message me on tumblr (same username).
> 
> 5\. SteveTony. This is a SteveTony fic. Other relationships are mentioned and lightly explored, but this is them. I write more from Steve's POV because I like Steve's character so much, but I love LOVE Tony. They get shit on because I love them.
> 
> 6\. Language. Notice point 5: definitely some language throughout.
> 
> 7\. Thank you, SmileandaSong, for encouraging me, for betaing, and in general for being such a marvelous friend! I am truly blessed!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this. I hope it measures up to what is expected (for those of you who have read the first posted fic) and that it satisfies something for those of you just now joining.
> 
> Italics denote three major themes: memories, thoughts, internal voices, and emphasis. Let me know if there is any confusion where each is concerned. I've tried cleaning up the more iffy spots, but, I'm biased in the tone and voice of the work as the author.
> 
> Commas and hyphens denote pauses and emphases throughout the work that are flavored differently than italics for emphasis and periods.

_Beep…beep…beep…beep…_

It should be comforting, the sound.

But, for Steve, it’s just another reminder of his failure.

_Beep… beep… beep… beep…_

It shouldn’t have happened this way.

 

He stands in the hall of the Wakandan medical ward, looking out the large floor to ceiling windows at the landscape beyond.

It’s been three days since the fall of Thanos and the restoration of the lost. Three days of restored hopes, reunited dreams, or at least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

The world is in chaos once more. In the time since the first snap, the remaining world had adjusted. Despite the loss of more than half of all life on the planet, the living moved on, taking the reins of the lost or missing and wrangling what they could of the disaster left behind. A tentative peace had settled, only for all to be restored and those who had at first been left are once more uncertain and overwhelmed.

Steve remembers reading up on the aftermath of World War II, when all the soldiers began coming home to a nation not suited for life how it was _before_. It was…

Well, he wouldn’t actually know. But, he knows _this_. He _lived_ this.

He doesn’t feel so alive anymore.

The land before him is marred with the remnants of their battle. Deep gouges scourge the earth, crisscrossing and weaving haphazardly. The bodies of the dead and wounded have since been removed.

They had a job to finish.

They, the Avengers, are still in Wakanda. What remained of the Wakandan forces stood fierce against the skyline, the remaining Avengers and their allies with them. The last battle had been fought here, on the plains outside the capital city. He remembers the haze and the dust, the sweltering heat. He can still taste the battlefield on his tongue.

 He is _so_ tired.

It was within the walls of this very complex that they had planned, had sent the signal, made the arrangements, and summoned the Titan once more.

He remembers the way the scientists—Bruce, Scott, Shuri, Jane, _Tony_ —had labored over the tables in the labs. Numbers, blueprints, numbers, graphs, more numbers, “ _why won’t this work! Goddamnit, come on! Give me a break!”_

_“You need to rest, Dr. Stark”._

_“Thanks, Princess, but no. I’ll rest when I’m dead.”_

Or, dying.

A shaky breath leaves his chest aching, the heaviness in his heart like cold ice.

Through the doors behind him, he hears the machines. The whip-whooshing of the ventilator doing its job while the heart monitor blip-beeps on; its whispered ‘alive, but not really’ mocking Steve where he stands.

Alive, but nonresponsive.

A breakthrough. They’d had a breakthrough. Shuri had combined the information Jane had of the Chitauri portal event with Tony’s arc reactor power and her vibranium technology, crunched numbers with Tony and Scott regarding the Ant Man micro-realm and its temporal qualities, and started the chain reaction that got them here.

They knew that once they started, Thanos would know, too. The energy signatures were too similar to the stones for him _not_ to feel the change. The threat of their being able to reverse all that had happened.

So, he had come, and they had won.

_But, was it worth it?_

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Pepper stays by Tony’s side for as long as she can. She wants to move him to New York, or Malibu, somewhere closer to the company, to their legacy, to their _home_.

_“We are not sure if he will remain stable for transport.”_

_“He could die.”_

Looking at him now, thin and pale, malnourished and underweight, she thinks, _he already has_.

She remembers the terrifying trip to space. The fear of not finding the ship in time… Remembers being too late.

_“Get him oxygen! Bruce! Come on, Tony!”_

Steve’s, “ _We can’t be… we can’t… no.”_

Nebula had revived before Tony. As soon as she had realized what was happening, she’d refused further assistance.

_“He cannot die.”_

It had taken them twelve minutes to revive him.  They’d reached the ship with only minutes to spare.

She doesn’t think that many of the bruises will ever go away. She knows that the organ damage will worsen. The scars…

He isn’t dead, but he is dying.

The tears stream down her cheeks as she holds his hand. He’s so cold. The temperature in the room is comfortable, for her, but, he is so _so_ cold.

The monitor beeps on.

Pepper lays her head on his thin, freezing hand.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Steve watches as they come and go. Pepper, Rhodey, Peter, Bruce, Natasha, and on occasion, some of the others as well. He’s seen Shuri visit twice now, each time with a new device in hand and hope on her face, and each time leaving with the spark in her eyes waning.

It’s becoming harder for Steve to keep hope.

“Hey, punk.”

Steve’s sitting in the lounge area in the hall this time when Bucky visits. It’s been two weeks now, since that day. Since they won.

“Hey, jerk,” he responds on rote, trying for jest.

Bucky scrunches his face, eyebrows drawn together, and huffs. He drags his eyes over Steve’s face, up and down his slumped seated form, and asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

He honestly doesn’t remember. The days have begun to blur together, marked by the rhythm of the people who come and go, visitors and guests, doctors and aids. Each new “day” only beginning with the next update, the new milestone met (if there is one).

The most recent had been… when? He remembers the bustle, the sudden increase in medical presence. Rhodes had been ushered out of the room by a frantic nurse.

_“What’s happening?”_

_Rhodey’s eyes were shining wet, his face trying to suppress a smile._

_“He breathed.”_

_That was five days ago_ , he thinks. Five days of the intermittent breath, of nothing besides the mocking beep beep _beep beep bee—_

 The cool touch of a metal arm to the nape of his neck gently pulls him back to focus.

“Come on. Get up.” He hooks under Steve’s arm and lightly tugs. “You’re starving, and you stink. When did you last shower or change clothes? You smell like one of those market alleys in the summer back when we were young and the bigger kids would try shoving you in the cans. Surprised anyone can stand you. Let’s go.”

When he doesn’t immediately move, Bucky uses his arm to pull Steve to his feet. He feels so heavy. The blood rushes to his legs, and the woozy feeling of imbalance washes over him. He hasn’t eaten, he hasn’t even had a decent drink since that day. Since waiting, waiting for something more. Always more.

“Two hours, Stevie. That’s all it’ll be. Then, we’ll come back, yeah?”

Good ole Buck. _Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky_.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Two hours.”

 

He never should have left.

They’re all in the waiting area; the sun beats down through the glass unfelt by those within. Every seat is filled, no place vacant. There isn’t enough room here for all of them.

The machines scream behind the closed doors.

He screams inside his own head.

He shouldn’t have left.

_You shouldn’t be here._

 

When the doctors come out to update them, he feels like there is no air in the room.

It was a seizure.

Whatever the gauntlet did to him, Tony has been floating between being comatose and awakening, the life support functioning as both precaution and supply.

“We don’t know what is happening.”

But, the up side is, he’s breathing on his own.

Steve can’t catch his breath.

The weight of a heavy metal hand on his back does little to help.

 

The others stay in shifts. Every few hours someone new rotates watch.

Steve won’t leave again. He can’t.

The days pass by unseen, unfelt. He feels empty, or, maybe not empty. Hollow, diminished. Alive, but not living.

He reflects more and more, stuck in the recesses of his mind, reliving memories… drowning in what-ifs.

What if he had stayed? What if they had talked? What if he had calmed his anger and sat with Tony that day with Ross, and he’d asked for more? What if he’d stopped in the airport and surrendered? What if he’d turned around in Siberia, carried them both? What if he’d left Bucky alone? What if he’d told Tony--?

What if he’d said _something_... anything…

“Here,” the press of a wrapped warm aromatic—is that a sandwich?—something into his hands snaps his focus. “Rhodey said you haven’t moved, and he hasn’t had time to bring you food. I assume Barnes has at least made you have a few smaller meals here and there, but, if he’s anything like Jim, he’ll wait a bit longer.”

“Miss Potts,” he starts. “You didn’t have to—“

“I wanted to,” Pepper interrupts. “Eat.”

Steve obeys. When he unwraps the meal, the already potent smell becomes nearly overwhelming. His stomach growls but his head hurts, and nausea tries to stem his appetite.

“It’s been a while since you’ve had a decent meal,” she notes. He can feel her bright green eyes taking him in. In the few years of having known Pepper, seeing her when she visited the Tower on those rare occasions, hearing about her so often from Tony, he knows that she is a remarkable woman. She’s intelligent, aware, and persistent. She takes action and fights back, prepares and responds. “I’d offer something for the nausea, but I don’t think it’ll help.”

“It won’t,” but he appreciates the sentiment no less. He takes a tentative bite, chewing slowly to force himself to taste the food, to appreciate. It’s difficult at first. The spices and meat tease at his gag reflex, and he just wants to spit it back out, but he resists. It takes a few bites before he feels he can safely say he won’t vomit. Pepper sits beside him, not watching, but waiting, peripherally observing him. “Thank you,” he says, swallowing another bite.

She hums.

He dutifully finishes his sandwich, making sure to clean any crumbs and takes them to the trash. When he comes back, she has opened water for him, which he gratefully accepts. The silence that settles over them is not comfortable, but neither is it suffocating.

In the background, the click-beeps continue. Sitting beside him, he can sense that Pepper has measured her breaths to the machines, too. He wonders if this is going to be their life from now on. The dashing of hopes for a miracle not likely to ever happen. Two people lost in a moment, ever waiting on the person they lov—

“I have to go back to New York soon.”

_Oh_.

Perhaps not. Life must go on.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It’s been nineteen days since… since.

She strokes a shaking finger along the wrappings of his left arm, the material catches at the dried tags along her bitten nails.

New York beckons. The not-really-a-seizure-but-they-don’t-know-what-it-was pushed back her return date, but the company cannot wait any longer. If he is to wake to anything even slightly normal, slightly stable, she must leave.

The tears burn tracks down her cheeks.

She doesn’t want to go, not anymore, but she _needs_ to.

The ring on her finger weighs heavily on her heart.

The box in her pocket lingers like a demon in the corner of her mind.

She continues to cry.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The monitors’ consistency means that he is still alive. There is oxygen circulating in his body, no matter the rattle that has started; he is being nourished, even if it is intravenously. He may sound like death approaching, but he _is_ still alive.

Steve repeats this, over and over, as he waits.

It’s been twenty days since they fixed it all. Twenty days of chaos outside, and hell inside. Twenty days…

Pepper had to leave yesterday. Since her chat with Steve, they had come to a silent agreement to share space while they stay. They would sit in silence, reading together, Steve trying but failing to push himself to draw, sometimes they’d even have short conversations, never talking about the real issues but conversing none-the-less. In that time her phone had gained in activity. What once was a buzz or a rumble every couple hours became a bombardment every few minutes.

_Duty calls_ , he had thought. More guilt settled deep in his stomach, tasting of bile and self-loathing.

Pepper had excused herself and gone into the patient room. When the door clicked closed, Steve had noticed that she’d left her phone behind on her now vacant seat. It rumbled in its spot.

He focused on that instead of listening in, losing track of the time. Always losing time.

He doesn’t remember exactly when Pepper left. He vaguely remembers the hesitant touch of a smooth thin hand to the back of his neck as she passed by, and whispered words of _‘call me if things change’_ and _‘will you be okay on your own._ ’

Whatever he answered must have been mostly satisfactory because she left with another light press on his neck and a suppressed cry. He should have stood and comforted her.

Now, he sits alone hovering between a state of consciousness and lethargy. He jerks when the weight of small socked feet presses into his thighs.

“Wha—“

“You don’t have to do anything. Just wanted you to know someone was here.” When he looks up, he sees Natasha. Her hair is dyed red again; a color that he thinks suits her well. She has dark circles under her eyes and a bruise healing along the side of her jaw. A cut is healing above her brow and Steve can hardly believe he hasn’t noticed this sooner because she’s part of his team and how could he not have—“Stop that,” she pokes his shoulder. “I don’t look nearly as bad as you.”

He knows he should take offence, even if only playfully, but the effort…

“How are you feeling?” He asks instead.

“Like shit. Exhausted, like you.” She checks her nails, then folds her arms, leaning back into the corner of the couch. Her hazel eyes subtly shift color as she looks him over. The light must be playing tricks, he thinks. “When did you last sleep?”

He doesn’t know.

Her feet dig deeper into his thighs, massaging into the muscles similarly to a cat kneading into a blanket. It feels nice, comforting. He didn’t realize how much they hurt. The more she kneads, the more of a feeling of relaxation begins to fall over him, and he doesn’t realize his eyes have shut until small hands are pulling him down, and he’s lying flat, and those hands have begun to press into his back, and damn that feels nice-- _You can’t have nice things_ —and he should be staying awake, “Hush. Take ten, Steve. I’ll keep watch. I’ve got him.”

Steve falls into a real sleep for the first time in almost three weeks.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They’re all worried about him, about both of them. Steve is killing himself, and Tony isn’t recovering, and they’re both dying.

Natasha is fairly certain Steve hasn’t been into the room. Almost all the others have visited him at least once, except for James and Wanda, and possibly Clint, but Steve… The guilt is eating him alive.

She begins at his neck and works down in waves, at first using gentle presses to find the more obvious trouble spots, then starting over again a slightly heavier hand. She pays attention to the larger knots. He should be seeing someone with how wound tight he is. This one time isn’t going to be enough.

It isn’t often that Natasha Romanov, the esteemed Black Widow, loses herself, but even she is human, loathe as she is to admit. _Oh, please, Natasha, you didn’t even try,_ a voice not unlike Tony’s whispers somewhere in the recesses of her mind. It hurts and helps at the same time. She really has missed him.

The chill in her chest grows.

She tries not to dwell on the past. These last few years have been some of the hardest she’s lived, even considering her time in the Red Room. The pain is different. The events mark transitions in her life that have utterly transformed her perceptions of reality, of the world, her friends, herself.

Living as a fugitive hasn’t been that difficult. She was always prepared if she ever needed to disappear alone. If anything, their time has been harder because there were so many of them, and as the numbers dwindled, the movement became easier.

Paranoia had set in at some point. Then, when secrets became stories and choices became nightmares, friendships strained and confidences shrunk, life became not-so-kind.

She weaves small thin fingers through greasy matted blonde strands, easing apart the knots so that she doesn’t wake the soldier beneath her.

“How long has he been out?”

The slight jolt of being taken off guard surges through her spine, then disappears not even a split-second later. It’s just Clint. A feeling of _safe, always safe_ washes over her, and she closes her eyes just to bask in it.

“Nat? You all right?” She always did love his Midwestern twang. Even when they didn’t know each other very well, when he spoke, a feeling of calm and ease would just settle like a weighted blanket over her. “Oh, Natasha,” those calloused hands brush over her temples, across her hair. Thick thumbs brush across the tears on her cheeks. “It’s all right. It’s gonna be all right.”

Leaving her palms flat, she lets her body tilt into Clint’s. She fits there, them together, in their own unique way. She wishes Laura were here, too. And James.

She wants it to be all right, “but, will it?”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Waking takes effort. His muscles feel both achy and relaxed at the same time. His spine feels rigid, his body weighted down. Just stretching out an arm takes so much energy, but that one movement leads to two, and his whole body feels like it needs to be pulled apart and wrung out and shaken back into shape. He drops a leg over the side of the couch he’d fallen asleep on—and isn’t that a thought, sleeping—and when he goes to push himself up, he realizes two things: his shoes are off, and there is something on his back.

“Stop moving,” is grumbled into space between his shoulder blades, and he remembers.

Natasha had come to see him… how long ago? She’d sat down, made herself comfortable, and then coaxed him into taking a nap.

He stops moving, letting her readjust and settle back into place.

“How long was I out?” He asks.

“Thirteen hours,” the voice across the room surprises him. His eyes bolt open and he almost throws Natasha off but she wraps an arm around his neck and holds on, plopping into the warm spot he’s left. “You always did sleep way too long. And like the dead, too. Scared the shit out of me when we were growing up.”

“Bucky, I—“

“Oh, shit, there’s actually something that makes Cap go red!” Clint laughs behind him.

Steve takes the chance to look around, his brain finally catching up.

There are a lot of them here. Bucky’s sitting in a recliner across from him and Natasha. Clint’s over by one of the windows, in the light that Steve’s still sleepy eyes aren’t quite ready to look into yet. Sam’s draped across another recliner, passed out and unaware of anything happening in the room; his pajama pants ride up his legs while his shirt crumples and exposes parts of his stomach. He’s quite a sight, and Steve thinks he should draw him like this at some point, drool dripping from Sam’s mouth and all. The thought makes him chuckle.

The whishing sound of mechanized braces tell Steve that Rhodes is coming. He listens closer while the others talk above him, and hears the heavy stomp of Asgardian boots as well as the nearly silent tap of Vision’s own feet.

Then, a noise within the patient room grabs his attention.

“Shuri’s in there with Bruce,” Bucky says by explanation. “They’re gonna try and wake him.”

It’s as though time has stopped, or slowed, and the beginnings of alarms screech inside his head.

_They’re gonna force him awake._

_What if he isn’t ready? What if it hurts him? What if… what if it doesn’t work?_

“They can’t do that.” All the ease he’d felt when waking is lost with the spike of panic in his chest. His eyes dart back and forth between the awake faces staring back at him, waiting. He’s standing, looking down at them all, and when did that happen? Natasha is up, a hand hesitantly hovering near his arm, and she’s saying something he can’t hear. “They can’t. They, they can’t do that.”

Rhodes’ braces snap his attention to the man himself and Steve has to know, has to know if Rhodes agrees, if he is going to allow this because, “they, they can’t wake him. Please, James, Colonel. They, they can’t—“

“Hold up, Cap,” a dark hand raises, placating. “Steve, Steve, calm down. They’re just checking. They’re in there now, running some tests. Seeing if it’s safe.”

They can’t wake him, not if he’s not ready. What if there’s something more wrong? What if they cause more harm than good? What if he wakes and he doesn’t, doesn’t…

“Hey. Hey, man. Come on.” Clint lightly grips Steve’s wrist, near imperceptibly tugging him around to look at the archer. “Focus for me for a minute, wouldja, Steve? Yeah?”

The world feels like it’s both spinning wildly out of control around him while also not existing at all, and his body wants to both fight and flee.

He shouldn’t be here.

He can’t leave.

“All right. All right, come on.”

There are hands on him, and he wants to fight, and refuses to move, but he can’t really be here. He can’t.

“Come on, Stevie. You gotta work with us.”

“Steve, calm down,” she’s always so level. A calm he hears, but cannot feel.

“Cap, it’s all right. I wouldn’t let them—“

“Steve, stop fighting. Breathe, man,” Sam?

“Shit, he’s, he’s not. Someone get Bruce out here.”

“Captain. All will be well,” very large palms grip his shoulders, and he tries to pull away, but the man’s strength is actually greater than his own, and he wants to fight. “You are with friends. No one here will hurt him. We are—“

The glide of the glass door and the clearing of a throat stops all in their tracks.

When Steve gains some clarity once more, Thor’s hands still resting on his shoulders though not gripping as tight, he looks up and sees Shuri and Bruce standing side-by-side.

_Oh no_.

They look a mix of agitated, sad, and concerned.

Thor’s hands drop from his shoulders, heavy as the weight in his chest.

“It isn’t going to work.”

 

Twenty-one days.

T’Challa has come and visited, bringing with him the option of more amenities for their stay here in the corridor. Thor, Bucky, Sam, Clint, and Vision have helped move more furniture in, and what should be a waiting area now looks more like a living space. They can all fit together. Natasha and Shuri have even brought a small television-like device for the team’s use while they sit watch.

There is no reason for them to stay like they are. Wakanda is one of the safest places, if not the absolutely safest place, that Tony could be while vulnerable like this. There is no reason for _Steve_ to feel like something worse is going to happen. Alas, six hours after the dreadful announcement, _I didn’t even want them to try, why does it upset me that it wouldn’t work_ , here some of them are, waiting.

It’s just he, Sam, and Wanda right now. Sam is reading a book, apparently about speaking Xhosa, and he’s practicing some of the noises under his breath. He must notice Steve watching, because he laughs, and apologizes.

“Just want to get used to it a little. So I won’t be too, too awful when I actually get to learning real words, you know?”

Steve just nods. He’s glad Sam is making an effort, but can’t bring himself to express just how much.

On the floor near them, Wanda sits with her legs crossed and her eyes closed, palms resting on her thighs. Steve remembers Clint telling them while on the run that she had started meditating, focusing on her powers, on herself. Finding calm, centeredness.

He wishes he could do the same.

Cutting his gaze from the resting witch, he rises, stretching and repressing a groan. Natasha’s massage has done wonders, but the weariness remains.

“You should take a shower,” Sam looks up from his book. “Grab some food or order something. Or, no, I’ll order. See how bad I am at these things.”

He knows he should shower. He’s got to use the restroom as it is. But, showering takes longer, and the last time he left for so long…

“We’ve got it, man.”

“He is safe with us.”

Steve’s eyes flits between the two Avengers, finally stopping on Wanda. She looks hurt, grieved. There is a cloud of darkness that hovers around her far thicker than around the others.

He wonders briefly if she feels guilty.

He feels guilty for wondering.

“I… yeah. I do need, I need,” the breath in his chest doesn’t want to release. “I should,” he waves ambiguously in some direction, knowing he should, really he should, take care of himself. Shower, eat. Maybe shave…

He trudges off, ignoring their concerned inquiries in his wake.

 

He’s gone no more than forty-five minutes this time. He’s asked Bucky to order them some food from one of the local shops, offering to pay him back once they get somewhere his money is actually useful.

“I got it, Steve. Go on.”

When he returns, Sam has headphones in and is mumbling under his breath. Wanda has moved to the couch that Steve has inadvertently claimed as his. He stands there, staring, confused.

She smiles at him and pats the seat beside her.

No one besides Natasha and Bucky have gone so far as to casually enter his space. What the others have deemed as his space. Well, what he has unintentionally claimed as, oh fucking, why does it matter.

When he begins to sit, she scoots slightly farther over, leaving a few inches between their sides. The TV isn’t on, and her mat has been rolled and stored under the coffee table in front of them. He realizes that she’s decided to stay. The thought pangs a different kind of ache in his chest.

_She never should have felt unwelcome._

“You should go see him.” The way she says it, he feels like there’s more to it. That beneath the words, there is a greater meaning. “It would be good for you. Both of you.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Why, indeed.

“You’ve been out here for three weeks, Steve, and you’ve not once stepped inside that room.”

Why does the guilt hurt so much?

“Perhaps you don’t go because of shame?” Her burgundy eyes shine with tears unshed. “Or, perhaps, it is because you are afraid it will make no difference.”

“Wanda, please.”

“No. Listen.” A small hand rises, wrapped in strands of red light, and he thinks he should be afraid, but when she touches his chest, right above his heart, all he can feel is the release of a chain he didn’t know he’d been bound with falling from within. “It will make all the difference.”

 

He’s standing directly within the doorway, the glass door closed behind him. The room is comfortably lit. Almost cozy. The machines blip and bleep unheeding of the new presence.

He thought it would be colder. Darker. More foreboding. It isn’t.

Instead, it feels… hesitantly radiant? Like the start of embers in a fire, not yet caught. Warm when close, nonexistent from a distance. Perceptibly unassuming, but able to catch at some point.

The cold in his chest recedes if only by an inch.

He steps further into the room, taking it all in.

Covered in the cream sheets and framed by the bed rails, Tony looks so small. Gauze and wraps cover his left arm up under the hospital gown and Steve assumes over his shoulder. He can see in the V that more gauze covers a spot on his left side, presumably where Thanos had stabbed him before, before all this. An infection from which no one had been aware he’d been suffering. The Wakandan medics had concerns about treating his older wounds, or wounds caused by the stones themselves, unwilling to put the life of the patient at further risk. Steve is grateful, so very grateful, for their openness, their dedication, and their concerns.

Bruises litter other exposed areas. Almost the whole right half of Tony’s face is covered in mottled blue and purple, some green seeping in at the sides.

_It’s been too long_ , Steve thinks. Tony obviously isn’t healing. Three weeks is too long for, for that, that kind of…

“Oh, Tony…”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“How long ago did he go in?” Bucky’s feet hurt. He’s been pacing in front of the large glass windows long enough that if he’d had shoes on there would be a scuff trail left in his wake. He pauses a moment to stretch out a foot, cramping from the continued plodding back and forth.

“About two hours ago.” Two hours. Okay. Steve must’ve gone in not long after asking him to order food. Bucky’s eyes flit to the table stopping on the full bowls sitting there, and his worry grows. Steve hasn’t been taking care of himself, although Sam said he got a shower earlier with minimal prodding. A shower, a change of clothes, and then had come back. Apparently he’d talked to the witch, and he’d gone inside. Bucky doesn’t think that that’s all that happened, by the way that Sam had avoided his eyes when he’d asked more, but… compromise. He likes Sam, despite their rivalry. When Sam isn’t talking shit, he’s giving great life advice. He’s fun to be around and a hoot to bear. “You gotta sit down, man. You’re scaring the shit out of Rhodes over there.”

“Bullshit, Wilson. You’re the one shaking in your slippers.” He likes Rhodes, too. Where Sam is all sass and spice, according to Natasha, the Colonel is savor and heat. _Why do I let her tell me these things?_ The Colonel is calm, collected, an obvious leader and mediator. His patience seems unending, something he’s been assured is good because of his relationship with Stark. “I can hear them from over here. The knitting unraveling as—“

“Nah, man. That’s the chattering of your braces, see? Whatever’s got them running so smooth—“

Bucky chooses to ignore them. His steps slow but don’t stop.

The witch had left with Vision not long before he himself had arrived, for which he’s glad. However, whatever Sam isn’t telling him, it has to do with why Steve decided that now, suddenly, he wanted to visit To-Stark. _Stark_ , he corrects himself. _You don’t know him._

But, he feels like he does.

He suffers, still, from the Winter Soldier’s memories, _his_ memories. Sometimes, they feel distant, like the dreams they are, and other times he feels like it’s happening right then and there. It’s during those times that he remembers—

_“This is BARF,” her face pinched in disgust. “It’s an awful name.”_

_“What does it do?”_

_She smiled, “What you need it to.”_

  * that despite the past, despite it all, the man in that bed in that room gave enough of a shit to fix what he thought was his mistake. He remembers asking the princess later in their progress if she could get him some information, anything at all that would help him fit this puzzle together.



Bucky often wonders if he and Tony would have been friends, if circumstances weren’t as they are.

“What’s happening?”

When Bucky looks up, there are staff running towards them. He’s quick to go to the door, Rhodes right by his side, while the doctor and nurses push them aside. There aren’t any alarms—

He turns his head, listening.

“He’s,” his eyes widen and he turns his head to look at Rhodes, “he’s fighting the respirator.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The hand beneath his is cold despite how long he’s held it. Deft fingers made still, graying without proper circulation.

The chart’s been made available to visitors, something he would have known if he’d come sooner. Miss Potts and Rhodes must have agreed to release the information. There are handwritten notes in the holoplanner document in Bruce’s lazy scrawl. Others with a finer touch interspersed throughout, sometimes as though they are having a conversation, debates and ideas. The notes are comprehensive.

The whole document is.

Steve’s vision blurs the more he reads.

It includes missing information from years prior: the removal surgery with the arc reactor, extremis, sternum restructuring, and the cradle; post-mission check-ups from before the Ultron fiasco; check-ups after Afghanistan; after Loki and New York; Siberia…

He didn’t know the reactor was so large.

He didn’t know about the medications.

He didn’t know about the surgery.

He didn’t know he’d… he’d…

Shaking fingers touch the spot on Tony’s chest above where the reactor would have sat. With great precision, Steve presses down just enough to feel. With his other hand, he pushes against his own. The difference frightens him.

“I’m so sorry. I’m, I’m so, so sorry.”

Dirty blonde strands fall in front of his eyes, his shame dragging him down, the dark crowding closer.

_If I push a little harder…_

He pulls his hand away as if burned.

“I could have killed you,” it’s a thought that haunts his every moment, solidified in its possible what-if reality by the information he has learned. “I could have killed you, and… and I wouldn’t have known,” _because I walked away. I didn’t look back. I didn’t, didn’t, and I should have… I_ should _have—_ “and I left you there. I left you there, and you- you could have, could have…”

_Not a perfect soldier; but, a good man._

“There’s nothing good about me.”

 

He can’t stand to touch him again, but he can’t bring himself to leave either. Now that he’s broken the barrier, he can’t.

He shouldn’t be here; he can’t leave. The irony. Present where you’re unwanted, absent where needed. Always the wrong time.

A nurse has stopped in once since he’s moved away from the cot’s side. He looked at Steve with a flicker of hope, extinguished when he’d processed the distance between the room’s two occupants. He continued with his check-up, noted the data, and saved the progress before preparing to leave.

His “you should talk to him” falling on shamed ears.

_Yeah, I should have_.

 

“I went to see Peggy, before… well, before it all started to fall apart. But, I don’t think that’s when it started. I think… I think it was before that. I want to say it was Ultron, because it’s the easy way out, you know? We, we always did…” the breath chokes on tears, “You shouldn’t have been… it wasn’t fair. To you.”

_It’s been like this for years_ , he thinks. The constant toss of blame, the expectation of reparations. Obligations. The burden.

“I know I never said, I never apologized. For a lot of things. But, I especially didn’t for the helicarrier.” The memory is one that undoubtedly feels real whenever he dreams it. That day on the helicarrier deck, when they’d confronted Fury while the scepter sat. And, while he often blamed the scepter for the things he said, he always knew in himself that it didn’t make him say anything he hadn’t already thought. It had lowered his inhibitions, not… well. “You proved me wrong, that day. You stood up to me, challenged me, and you proved me wrong. And… you proved me right. You showed me that I was wrong about you, and some people would say that you’d done it just to make a point. But, not me.

“ I did finally do some homework, you know? Searched your name on the internet, and watched videos of what you’d done since becoming Iron Man. Even watched some from before.

“Tony… you, you proved me _right_ , too. You were always a hero. As much as you made weapons, the same technology you made that was claimed to revolutionize wars, _you_ used to transform lives. The media saw a war monger, the world experienced a philanthropist. You didn’t just give money. You gave _lives_. The amount of good you did through the Maria Stark foundation alone… Jesus, _Tony_.

“You made miracles happen.”

The tears leave cool salty paths down his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. Absently, he thinks he must look a mess. He doesn’t care.

 “I didn’t know you; I hadn’t even said more than a few words to you by then that weren’t related to SHIELD or, or _Fury_. You went to uncover what SHIELD was hiding, and I had the, the _audacity_ to insinuate that you were the one not to be trusted. I told _you_ that you weren’t Iron Man to save people. I told _you_ that you weren’t, that you did it for yourself!  I was wrong.

“You say you’d just cut the wire, but that’s not entirely true,” the laugh that escapes him thrums a pained nerve in his chest, his lungs aching with the effort. “You don’t just cut it. You block the way, cover the bomb. You protect, even when you know you risk dying on your own.”

There is a buzz within his skull, something pinching his thoughts trying to grab his attention, but he can’t stop. Not now, not when he’s finally gained the courage to say these things, even if they’ll never be heard. Right now, he needs to say them, and if as soon as he gets the chance, he’ll say them again. Over and over until the whole world knows—

“Tony Stark, you _are_ a hero. And, I never should have said otherwise.”

It’s at that moment that Steve actually hears the machines. His blue eyes shoot up and whiskey brown look back.

“Oh god…”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The sun has set in Wakanda; the moon shines brightly down on the major city and the grounds. It’s pretty, the way the shadows cast from a mix of the natural and the artificial lights. The country and its people are beautiful, inspiring. They’re a perfect blend of tradition and progress; the past and the future living cohesively as one.

He thinks T’Challa might have some wise words about that.

The colonel laughs to himself.

Tony woke for the first time a few days ago. The excitement wore him out and sleep had claimed him once more. He wants to believe that he hadn’t panicked as much as he actually did, but at least it wasn’t nearly as bad as Rogers.

_Steve_ , he corrects himself. They _are_ on semi-friendly terms again.

The air in the waiting area had grown tense since the awakening. It felt like almost everyone wanted a turn to visit, the way they were all shuffling and fidgeting. The nurses and doctors had pushed Steve out of the room, tending to their patient, and by the time they’d finished, Tony had started sleeping once more.

“He was awake,” Steve had whispered repetitively, over and over again. “He was awake, and I didn’t even notice. How didn’t I notice? He was awake.” And, again once more.

Natasha had come to check on him after Barnes had taken Steve for a walk, damn near dragging the man behind him. Steve had been so forlorn.

“You all right, Jim?”

He was. Even though he hadn’t been the one there when Tony had first woken, he was fine. Did it hurt? A little, but they’re built stronger than that.

Since, he’s had some time to sit with him, and on one particularly lucid occasion, Tones had had the chance to look at the braces even though he wasn’t meant to be doing any work.

“My brain is rotting from the thought alone. Silence. No more talking. Only work,” and they had laughed.

When Tony fell asleep, that’s when he let the tears fall. Years of friendship may have eased the hurt of not being there when his brother woke, but they do nothing for the pain of knowing that any day could be the last.

He’s breathing rhythmically, calming his senses, when he hears the crackle of boot on ground.

 “It’s a nice night out,” Barnes says. If Rhodes hadn’t already gotten used to the Soldier’s ghostly tendencies, he’d likely have been surprised; however, he’s pretty sure Barnes had purposefully stomped to let him hear. “You feeling—“

“All right? Yeah,” he lies. “You’re probably the third or fourth person to ask. It’s making me start to wonder if everyone else isn’t.”

The soldier hums in response.

Rhodes has been working on their relationship, preparing even. When Tony had learned about Steve’s side project, he’d come to Rhodey seeking advice. At the time, neither of them thought it pertinent to pressure the soldier into letting them provide aide. So, Rhodey told Tony to stay open to helping and he himself had moved on. Then, with the Accords, Leipzig, and… Well, they should have pressed. But, time grants the gift of hindsight. And, Rhodes has had that time to consider the full scope of events, and he’s come to a final conclusion:

He doesn’t blame Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Mind, he’s still pissed. Absolutely. But, it isn’t Barnes’s fault. Nor is it entirely Steve’s or Tony’s. There’s so much murk there that he’s just tired, waited for it to settle.

Then shit hit the fan.

The braces _phwish_ as he shifts.  The gravel beneath his current guest’s boot’s crunches, and they stand together watching the horizon.

His thoughts start to wander again. These last weeks, he’s tried observing more. Steve’s constant vigilance and unhealthy persistence has been feeding many a team members’ worries. Not far behind him, so has Barnes. Rhodey’s seen the way Barnes prowls, the way he observes, as though he expects to be both predator and prey. He stands guard over Steve, if not in the captain’s presence, then from the shadows. If not him, then Natasha. He trusts few, questions everyone, and his paranoia rivals Tony’s own. However, in the instances where Rhodes has had the true pleasure of sharing the sergeant’s company, he’s found that he’s also witty. A bit flirtatious. Ignorant of his own self-preservation, with a guilt complex larger than the ledger that follows is long.

It’s a profiles Rhodes intimately understands and recognizes.

“Steve has a type.”

It takes a minute, and Rhodey enjoys watching the transition of expressions as Barnes tries to process what he’s said.

“I’m… sorry?” They’re standing here side-by-side, and it makes Jim want to laugh, the differences and the similarities between not just the two of them, but between the two of _them_.

“Steve,” he says again, as if that makes it any clearer.

“Yeah?”

“He has a type.” He hopes he’s wearing the shit-eating grin, because, he’s so tired, and anything less right now would be too suggestive otherwise (thanks, Tony). Barnes raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, come on. You don’t see it?”

“Care to elaborate?”

He laughs, hard. “You’re both jackasses. Quick, witty, smooth-talking, foxy assholes who do what they need to, who have no care about their own self-preservation, and who have armor incorporated into their daily wear.” He makes sure not to mention the guilt complexes or self-deprecation.

When the dawning realization hits, Rhodes can’t contain himself. Barnes has to raise his voice to even be heard, “No! No. That’s not… Steve and I never… Rhodes, come on. You’ve never…? Really? Tony and you, surely. I mean, we’re just friends! Steve and I, we’ve, just, you know what? Fuck you.”

A heavy metal hand easily shoves him while the other reaches out to grab the back of his shirt to make sure he doesn’t fall.

Maybe they’ll be all right.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Even when Buck had brought him back, he’d waited. Paced the very same floor space Bucky had paced not even hours before, unbeknownst to Steve. He’d listened as the others talked, Rhodes excused himself to make a call— _probably Pepper_ —and he’d stopped listening after. The inane chatter uninteresting to him.

_Someone’s in a mood_.

When the doctor’s had finally cleared for visitations, Steve felt all the stares on him, but he’d declined. Rhodes had offered the next visit to the others, all who also waved the offer knowing that right now, someone who _knew_ Tony should be there. Someone _not Steve_.

_I shouldn’t be here._

_Oh, shut up, Steve._

Since his waking, the voice in Steve’s head had gotten louder, more persistent. It’s as if with Tony’s slowly regaining of consciousness, the pseudo-conscience in his own head has flourished. Eighteen hours of constant rambling, thoughts and observations about anything and everything while Steve wallows in his grief and guilt.

_Just go say hello. You’re making_ me _uncomfortable, Cap, with all this—_ the mental hand waving makes him want to smile despite his heartache— _all this._

_I can’t, Tony._

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.

 

“You _do_ know that you can go in?”

Steve raises tired eyes up to peek into brown. It’s been three days since Tony woke, and Steve still hasn’t gained the courage to go in. On more than one occasion one or more of the others have asked nicely if he’s seen Tony yet, questions which he always evades. From the looks he’s gotten, he doesn’t think he’s been too good at it.

He’s too tired to have this conversation with Rhodes; instead, he just nods.

“Might be a good time to do it?”

Steve doesn’t comment. He just sighs, shoulders hunching, as he declines once more.

 

The quick tip-tapping of shoes worn by the medical personnel snap him out of whatever melancholic reverie Steve was sucked into by his waiting. They look harried.

Steve turns his head to listen for the alert sounds of the machines in Tony’s room but doesn’t hear any.

He doesn’t hear any of them at all.

“Oh my god,” he kicks the chair he was sitting in back, hard, the loud crack of it hitting the wall ringing in the room ignored. There aren’t _any_ sounds coming from the room at all. He runs to the sliding door, breath caught in his chest. His ears ring, shock running through his entire body. Steve stands at the entrance to the room, frozen in place. Ice closes in around his frantically beating heart. “Tony?”

He can’t hear his own voice. The doctor stands beside the patient bed, flashing a light back and forth in front of Tony’s eyes while two nurses prepare syringes and supplies. Steve can’t hear what they’re saying. He can hardly process that the doctor doesn’t look worried so much as she does annoyed.

What he _can_ process is that Tony is alive, sitting up, awake, and gesturing like he’s frustrated with something going on.

The utter relief that floods Steve’s veins has him collapsing in the threshold.

“Captain Rogers?”

“Steve?”

The exhaustion he’s been feeling catches up with him and darkness consumes him.

 

He feels… odd, when he starts to wake. He’s a little floaty; sound is muffled. There’s a distant ache somewhere in the back of his skull, and he isn’t quite sure what has happened or what is going on except, maybe, it was important. Really important. He feels like he needs to get up, to move around. Look.

Someone is there, watching.

The distant sense of urgency suddenly becomes overwhelming.

Steve jerks awake. The attempt to lift himself reveals two immediate things: there’s something in his arm, and he’s laying on a surface that feels like it’s _literally_ sucking him into the material. Adrenaline pumps through his veins; panic induced by disorientation. Stinging pain shoots up his arm and just as bare feet touch cold floor—

“You’re an idiot.”

Time stops.

_Tony_.

The twist of his head sends a pang up his neck from the whiplash. His eyes feel like they’re heated saucers in his skull, the air drying the wet. Light filters through, which is both too bright and not bright enough as his vision tries adjusting.

But, Tony is there. He is there, sitting in his hospital bed with a sheet covering most of his lower half and then some, and he is sitting up and looking at _Steve_ — _he’s looking at me? Me!—_ and Steve can now hear through the dulling of his ears the monitors as they chirp along with their own happiness— _look, our patient is awake! He’s alive!—_ and the _utter relief_ that falls over him…

Steve experiences the fall back onto his cot much like a reader experiences the imagery of a story: distantly, but also personally. He doesn’t register the foam forming around himself again. He ignores the ache of the pulled I.V. in his arm. The pains of his weary and worn body will pass, if only because now, now he can _know_ —

The heavy huff and groan of his companion makes the smile on his face grow all the wider.

“I can’t believe you, Rogers.”

When he focuses achy dry eyes back to where they most yearn to see, his heart lurches in his chest.

Tony is there. He is sitting up. He is lucid and awake and talking and _worried. He looks worried. About me?_

And Steve would feel guilty for that worry if he wasn’t so goddamn _relieved_ that this is now, and Tony is here and aware, and they are talking, and the madness of the situation and the marrow deep exhaustion hit him all at once, and he’s chuckling. Deep, rumbling through his chest, and Tony is over there looking at _him_ , at _Steve_ , with his gorgeous glossy whiskey caramel eyes like Steve is the one who is absolutely raving madness. Tony has the audacity to look exasperated, really!

Yet, Steve couldn’t be more _elated_.

“Oh, fucking—really? Stop. Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” his chuckles become giggles, and Tony just starts looking more concerned, and amused, and slightly if not entirely perturbed.

“You thought it,” those thin lithe fingers dance in the air, like casting a spell, as those gorgeous eyes narrow and teeth bite chapped lips, and _damn, he’s just so pretty. God,_ he’s _alive!_ “You’re a mess, Cap. I mean, look at you. You have a beard. A beard!  An absolute mess, so stop smiling at me like you’re some spoilt little shit, because—“

Steve relaxes back on the cot, the I.V. dripping, and listens. He basks in Tony’s tirade, letting himself have this moment, if only just this once.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

She was in a conference call with S.I. Shanghai when her personal lit-up with a call from Rhodey. She had excused herself for a moment-- _family issue, just a minute, please, Dr.--_ while she listened to Rhodes’ update.

He woke up. They don’t know for how long nor do they know how coherent or aware he was.

 Steve was there.

She wasn’t surprised. The captain had been haunting the waiting room for weeks after… after.

Tony fell asleep again of his own accord after the ‘excitement.’ Rhodes was sitting with him as he called.

Now, she sits spinning the ring on her finger in thought. She feels an abnormal sense of detachment, the kind that one experiences when the stress of everything becomes almost too much, and instinct takes over. It’s the type of detachment that says _survive not thrive_ as you try to find footing only for the ground to continuously slip yet be so solid, and the world shakes but you realize that it’s actually just you, and you have to keep going. Do what you can. Do what you _have_ to.

They knew it wouldn’t work. Not really. The cushion of her chair presses to the back of her head, easing the coming headache just enough for her to focus, if only for the moment.

She remembers the proposal, the one done as an alternative to the much needed recruitment of Spiderman, of Peter, to the Avengers. An offer the kid rejected, much to her and Happy’s surprise. Thinking back on it, on the fact that Happy had carried the ring with him for _years_ , along with Tony’s nearly flippant assumption of what she might say if he did in fact make the proposal.

She thinks about what Tony looked like after the press conference.

A ping over her computer has her answering an email, then making a call, then handling some more paperwork before she has to do another call, and when she finally has a moment again where she promises herself to grab some food and a coffee, she just… settles.

This is her legacy, her life. S.I. is her drive and purpose. It’s the present and the future, what has been and what could be, wrapped together in one of the most prestigious businesses on the whole of earth. Maybe even in their galaxy. It is both a gift and a curse given to her, from Tony.

The thought of Tony has her checking her phone for any updates. There are none yet.

She doesn’t know if she should be worried or relieved.

They love each other, she knows. Years of she and Tony working side-by-side, striving for a greater goal, living the lives they’ve lived, there is very little room for her to not have either chosen to love or to hate him. Sometimes, she’s done both at once. So, yes, they’ve loved each other for years…

But, they’ve not been _in_ love in a long time.

“Miss Potts, there’s a call on hold for you. Maberson from R&D.”

“Thank you, Jessica. I’ll get it.”

She spins the ring again, more forcefully. They love each other. Work well together for the good of their company, and their friendship.

But, they are no match.

The hold button beeps at her, the light blinking.

_“I like to watch the light blink.”_

The thought warms her, while also settling her resolution.

She pulls the little black box out from her desk’s second drawer then picks up the phone.

“Valerie, it’s Pepper. How are you?”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He’s awake this time when one of the doctors returns. He’s noticed the rotation of physicians more clearly since staying in the room. Different doctors, different exams. He feels like he should be more worried, but more often finds himself to be relieved. Relieved that the care is consistent, the doctors are driven and the attending nurse staff compassionate.

He’s relieved that Tony is not only alive, but awake, even if the doctor is currently repetitively palpating the lower region of Tony’s ribcage. Even if her face is scrunching as she moves the stethoscope back and forth, intermittently commanding Tony to take deeper breaths and release them.

Tony hasn’t stopped talking.

This is something else Steve has noticed. There’s hardly any room for silence. Which, Steve isn’t complaining. A chatty Tony Stark is a living Tony Stark. But… it leaves little room for conversation.

_Maybe that’s the point?_

Tony is nervous. He’s jittery despite his exhaustion. The bags under his eyes haven’t changed. His bruises have finally reached the next stage of healing, mottled in multi-color but fading.

Tony marvels over the technology he’s been allowed to use by Shuri. He has worked on Rhodes’s braces, running schematics to fix the War Machine armor… sparsely working on the Iron Man schematics. Steve has watched him rip the technological coding apart on the tablet, worrying Steve with his single-minded haste, only to have FRIDAY’s voice come through sharp and clear and lilting with a worry an A.I. isn’t supposed to be able to feel. But, Tony doesn’t build code.

He creates people.

Steve watches as the doctor leans back from her exam. Tony has pulled the tablet back to his lap; the holographs appear above without command, and he’s swiping them left and right searching for something Steve isn’t sure of, but the Iron Man schematics fly by once more.

_He won’t be able to fly_.

The thought comes as an overwhelming anxiety, like winter waters rushing in over a sinking flesh. His gaze rests back on scarred limb, wrapped in a sling and resting against a too thin chest.

A too thin chest that is heaving for breath.

He thought the water was worse. That crushing chill that forces sleep so quickly. Drowning and not.

No, this is worse. It’s memory. It’s _what-if_ and _could have been._ It’s Siberian winds nipping at his fingers, seeping into his uniform, freezing his helmet. It’s the later thought of snow falling, settling, of ice crystals patterning across crushed metal as heat leaves and no one is there, and footsteps march away, and _not knowing_ —

Tony is sitting there, in front of him. Thin, frail, hurt, and _dying. Look at him. So sick. Failing. Falling, falling, you won’t make it, you won’t_!

Tony’s gasping break for breath from his rambling tears Steve back to reality. He’s run out of air, but has continued trying to talk to the doctor. She rolls her eyes and takes the oxygen mask beside the bed and forces it onto Tony’s face.

Immediate relief.

 “I would like to place you on another round of antibiotics,” she is saying. “You have an infection. We will take some cultures; treat it accordingly.” She scribbles some more notes onto the holographic pages all the medical staff share as she talks. “You will need to _rest_.”

Tony tries to take off the mask to which she deliberately pushes it back on. He’s frustrated, trying to push her hand away, and Steve can’t help but hurt for how weak Tony actually is. So lively yet still… still…

“Rest, Dr. Stark. You deserve it.”

 

Surprisingly, Tony listened earlier. The process to collect the cultures had been unpleasant, Tony coughing roughly for minutes afterwards. He’d yearned to help, reaching but not touching as the doctor shot him pointed looks. She’d replaced the mask and they’d calmed Tony’s episode, after which he’d grumbled a few expletives before sleep crept in.

_More like hit me like a freight train._

Or, like that.

Tony is beautiful in repose. Body loose, chapped lips slightly parted. His head leaned off to the side. Steve wishes to read more into it, the way Tony angles towards him at his bedside, but even Steve’s own arrogance wouldn’t suppose as much.

The stress, though, never leaves. The pinching near his nose, the lines around his eyes. Even now, Tony lingers between states of rest and worry, of relaxation and concern. A state of being that the man himself can’t control.

_And, yet, I’ve been so_ lively. _Uncharacteristically so, wouldn’t you say, Captain Observation?_

Steve’s heart hurts.

The weight pulls.

 

He’s in the waiting area when he watches Pepper walk into the room.

Two hours later, she leaves.

“She left the ring,” Clint whispers from his seat near Steve. He’s restringing his bow; cleaning and polishing it as they sit.

The guilt tastes like bile.

 

He doesn’t want to knock. He really, really doesn’t.

He knocks anyway.

“Tony?”

The machines blip and beep, working as they should, but when Steve opens the door, the lights are off and the room silent. It feels like loss.

“Tony?”

He’s in bed, lying away from the door. The sheet covering him trembles.

_Oh, Tony…_

Hiccupping breaths betray sorrow.

The chair scrapes across the floor when Steve sits. He isn’t quite sure which of them is shaking more: Tony with his silent sobs, or Steve with his coiled desire to _fight_ it, whatever it is. Because, if he can fight it, he can make it better. Has to make it better.

He leaves his right hand to lay still on top of the cotton sheets. An offer.

It isn’t until minutes have passed that fabric moves again, and frail fingers hold his own.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sitting here has been one of the hardest things he’s had to do in a long time, excluding his temporary exile. Weeks of on and off surveillance of the premises, and he really feels like his limit is almost reached. Of course, if he thinks about it for any length of time besides the momentary bitching, Clint knows he wouldn’t move even if forced. He’d find a way to be right here like he is now. Because, right here, is where he’s needed.

Steve is a goddamn mess. The whole team is, after that fiasco the world calls ‘being saved’ and Clint calls ‘fucking bullshit.’ But, the other half of the world is back. The other half of the universe, as far as they can tell. At least, that’s what Mar-Vel tells them. That it worked.

There’s ash in his lungs.

Clint sits and fiddles with his phone, twisting it around, and around, and around. Tossing it about, up and back down. Over and over.

What goes up must come down.

What flies must land. Or fall.

_“Stark!!!!”_

 

When Pepper returns, he knows it’s not good. He’s seen that walk before. He knows that look.

_The house is quiet. The kids aren’t making any noise from anywhere. There are no toys scattered across the floors, or dishes stacked on the tables. There’re no jackets tossed about or mud tracked through the rooms._

_It’s empty._

_It has been for a while._

_“Honey?” He tries. “I’m home!”_

_The tracker on his ankle drags like ball and chain._

_“Laura?” He shouts again._

_The floorboards behind him creak, and he knows instinctively that she did it for him, that noise. That acknowledgement of shared space. A verbally silent ‘I’m here. Right here.’_

_Looking at her, it hurts._

_And, he knows. He knows, from her eyes alone, that there’s only two ways this can go._

_He ignores the ache that climbs his body when knees hit floor. Time for sentencing._

He restrings his bow, cleaning as he goes. Stark made it. It’s balanced perfectly. Has limited technological aides. Half a mile, how about more? Into a hull, how about all the way through? Out of arrows and need a melee weapon?

_“Press this button, and no one can touch you. Promise. Upgrade goes with the suit,” hands waved up and down his physique. “Don’t use without the new rags. You’re a walking skewer for the barbeque. Light ‘em up.”_

He thinks Laura would like it, the upgrade, if she didn’t worry about what might happen if he came up short.

Steve’s sitting near him, staring at the door Pepper disappeared through. Clint wonders if he knows how easy he is to read like this. Hurt, lost, longing.

He tries not to gawk. It isn’t polite, Laura would say.

 

When Pepper leaves, he’s right.

“She left the ring,” he mumbles, bow in hand once more. He doesn’t need to restring it. Nerves and habit have him repeating the chore over and over again.

He ignores Steve’s muffled gasp.

God, he misses Laura.

 

Natasha joins him some hours later. She’s in pajamas, in public. It takes him a minute to process that. Eventually, she smacks him, lightly, on the cheek. She’s smiling and shaking her head, and climbs onto the sofa with him. She curls into his side, which he allows, and strokes the armor covering his chest.

“You should change into something comfortable.”

He hums in response. Why would he need something more comfortable? What if they’re needed?

She grunts, stretches out, then put her nose into his pit, and groans.

“You could at least shower.”

The laugh feels good.

 

Steve’s been in the room with Stark for… how many days has it been? Or, maybe it’s only been a few hours. He doesn’t know anymore. Doesn’t much care really either. Nothing much matters now. Half the universe was taken, his fam—

Half the Universe was taken, and then it was brought back.

He still hasn’t received a text or a call.

God, something good has got to happen.

 

Visiting Stark in his room… The world had gone to shit. Everything that could have gone wrong had. Then, they were called on to save the Universe. Gods and monsters, men and women all to the same cause. But, not all at the same price.

Stark looks like shit. He honestly looks like shit. If this is better, Clint’s glad he didn’t come in sooner.

Steve looks like he’s sucked a lime, or more appropriately like he’s eaten a bite of terrible casserole and has to lie about how good it tastes. Mmm, yum, dirt slop and spices.

The chatter Stark keeps up on his own, like he can’t just shut-up for one moment and let them get a single word in, not one, aggravates his nerves. Makes him want to punch something. Punch Stark.

But, he’s too happy the man is alive to do anything about it.

 

“Call her.”

The phone is thrown onto his lap, hard. It hits just right, and his gut feels like it’s been grabbed by a big fucking murderous grape and wrenched ‘til it empties all over the damn floor.

Sam glares at him from where he looms above the sofa.

Clint thinks about Pepper. About Steve… About Tony.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “All right. Yeah.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

 “I knew it wouldn’t last,” he’s whispering. His voice is hoarse, gravelly from the recent session of treatments. “With Pepper. I mean,” he’s coughing and Steve’s own chest aches with the memories long past, “Happy carried the ring for years. Years… And, it wasn’t until Pete turned down the Avenger’s position that I- I-“

He’d watched the press conference that day. A live stream set-up looking across the floor to the stage set in the compound’s lobby. Journalists milling about, talking to one another. Speculation and rumors. New Avenger? Disassembling the Initiative? NATO news?

No.

“She deserved better.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

“It never lasts.”

With the way Tony looks at him, eyes heavy, glistening… the way his right hand squeezes just a bit harder, he can’t think of anything he _could_ say.

 

It’s almost been thirty days when the team comes to visit all at once. Bruce, Natasha, Thor, Clint, Sam, even Bucky comes in.

Tony asked them to.

He’s hosting, and it’s got Steve on edge. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like there’s a knife in his back or a gun to his head and he’s eight inches shorter and down seventy-five pounds with a limp and no one around to help.

Tony’s tossing names left and right, “Red Scare,” “Mean green,” “Blade,” “Bird boy, not Hooter over there. Only one of you is an adult, and it isn’t you, Wilson.”

It’s fake; forced joviality. It’s rotten to the taste.

Steve thinks everyone else might think so, too.

 

It’s raining. He’d ask Thor to postpone the weather if he felt he didn’t deserve it.

He’s out running, sloughing through muddy streams, trying to burn some of the energy coiled deep in his muscles, in his bones.

_“Just, back the fuck up. You and your mother-goddamn-henning, you overbearing prick. You’re worse than Obie on a deadline, and just as much a liar. Let me fucking breathe! Get out. I can’t, I don’t- I don’t need you here, Rogers.”_

It shouldn’t have hurt like it did. They are just words, and not even very crude ones. He’s been in medical for weeks, and awake and cooped-up for nearly half as long. Tony’s tired. Peeved. Cranky. Exhausted. Sick, still.

He keeps running.

Bucky joins him.

 

They’re sitting on a cliff side somewhere in the Wakandan borders, rain falling over them and soaking their clothes through. He thinks he should be cold. That maybe he should worry about the storm.

There hasn’t been any thunder or lightning, and the temperature remains comfortable.

“I think Thor may actually be a god,” Bucky mumbles. It makes Steve smile.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Thor actually was. He’s wise enough: compassionate, empathetic, caring. He protects and he serves. He’s might and justice, mercy and forgiveness. But, he’s also unerringly mortal, no matter how long a life he may able to live.

Steve looks at his own unscarred, unblemished hands. At places where scars should be and are whole.

He wonders about his own mortality.

He fears Tony’s.

The weight of cool metal falls on his knee, the fingers squeezing, offering soothing comfort.

“Tell him, Stevie.”

He squeezes back.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

She’d avoided going in as long as she felt safe. When Steve left earlier, the storm outside billowing in much like the one in the room, she’d waited. She’d let the staff come through a few times; let the lung treatment happen along with the yelling and the frustration. She’d let him simmer down, stew and settle.

The light is dimmed. She’d hoped he’d be asleep again, having exhausted himself, when she came in.

“Watch your back,” brushes her like the breath of an unseen ghost.

She freezes, hot shame flushing down her spine. The memory of that day hasn’t faded with time. She regrets it, with every revelation of the things they could have had as a team, as a family, had things gone differently. If they had talked… if they hadn’t lied.

His eyes are closed and body still, but his chest rises and falls. The burn along his neck and up the left part his face is raw. The bruises look much like they did the other day when he had them all come in. He is healing, somewhat. Slowly. Time isn’t on his side.

He looks so exhausted.

“Lucky for me, I’m stuck on mine, so, kudos for trying though.”

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes. He just hums, the monitors settling with him as he falls asleep.

This time, she stays.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He wishes the burn of hot water against chilled flesh also warmed the cold in his bones. Droplets trail down his spine, uncomfortably so, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needed the run, but it’s left him even more worn than he had been before.

Soap and hair wash has been provided. The steam enhances the fruity aroma, and if Steve were in any other shape, he’d probably find it comforting.

He thinks of Tony and wonders if maybe a real shower might ease his own discomfort. Maybe he’d let the nurses help him in the water, or, maybe even Steve could…

Steve drags his hands down his face, wiping away the thought. Of course Tony wouldn’t want him to help. The man is entirely sick of _needing_ help.

It’s all Steve wants to do, is help.

 

It’s almost three in the morning when he finally decides to go back to the room. The lights are dimmed far down, and Tony is—

He’s twitching. Why…

“Don’t touch him,” the sound of Natasha’s voice startles him nearly out of his skin. He whips his head around and then sees her, seated on a stool in a dark corner of the room. The cut on her forehead looks better, smaller, and Steve briefly wonders if it itches. “He’s been like this for the last hour or so, on and off.”

“Nightmare?”

“Or memories.”

Steve walks around the bed, sitting in the seat he’s claimed as his own, but he doesn’t touch. Tony’s right fingers twitch, the muscles in his arms jump periodically. His eyes scrunch and his mouth pulls as though he can’t decide between snarling or crying out. Steve wants to hold him, to soothe his pain.

When Tony whimpers, Steve hangs his head and cries.

 

“How did we get to this point?” He asks.

She’s been quiet the whole time they’ve been here. Even when the nurse had come through and dosed Tony with a mild sedative, she hadn’t made a sound. No rustling, no movement. Just, silence.

“To what point are you referring?”

What point, indeed. Is it here, now, where one of their team has nearly lost their life, again, for the sake of the world? Is it here, where they find little to no comfort in each other’s presence? Is it the ease with which they’ve secreted away their lives, their dreams, themselves? Is it the distrust? The simmering anger? The lingering resentments? Is it all of it? None of it?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t answer.

 

Natasha stays with him the rest of the night and into the late morning.

“I have a promise to keep.”

He doesn’t ask.

 

The doctor comes in as Tony is beginning to wake. He’s grousy and short, already pissed with his morning. His lungs are doing better, but the treatment is still necessary, and Steve tries not to watch as Tony struggles and fights with the doctor and the equipment.

Natasha doesn’t move.

“The fuck are you two doing in here? Come to, to—“ coughing interrupts him, and Steve sees the way Natasha twitches towards him but doesn’t go.

Steve leaves instead.

 

When he returns, Tony is fully awake. The oxygen mask is over his face as he works on the tablet. From the doorway, it looks like new widow’s bites.

Tony hasn’t noticed him yet, so he takes advantage of the moment.

Tony is aware, more so than he has been of late. He’s healing better; the swelling on the right side of his face is nearly gone and the bruising faint. The bags under his eyes are still prominent, but his skin isn’t nearly as translucent. He wonders if the oxygen has the most to do with that.

The nurses have helped him change clothes, too. Gone is the flimsy gown, replaced by sweats and a soft short-sleeved flannel pajama button-down. It’s freshly clean, or maybe that’s Tony. Steve can’t tell for sure from the entryway.

In all, Tony looks more comfortable, for which Steve is very glad.

“Knock, knock.” It’s said under oxygen fed breath. Tony hasn’t looked up from his work yet, but he’s become aware of Steve’s presence.

“Who’s there?”

“You are. Get over here and sit down.”

 

“You’re probably tired of everyone asking, but, how are you feeling?”

“Honestly? Like I’ve been hit by a train. They let me get a real bath last night. Thus,” hands wave over the general view of his new pajamas, “these. I feel better without my ass sticking to the sheets.”

“You look like you’re feeling a little better.”

He’s not sure if he’s said something wrong, with the way Tony pauses. But, when whiskey eyes stare back at him, contemplative and serious, he thinks maybe he hasn’t.

“So do you.”

 

The little black box has been long gone. Steve isn’t sure where it is or who has it. He doesn’t know if it’s in a table drawer or stashed elsewhere, but it’s disappeared.

The sun shines into the room from the windows. It’s a little after noon and he can feel his stomach growling. The staff hasn’t brought food in yet for Tony, either, and with the time quickly approaching one, Steve resolves to rectify the issue.

“What would you like to eat?”

“Hmm?” Tony has been reading something on the tablet. A fantasy novel, Steve thinks. He’s only peeked once or twice, curiosity getting the better of his manners. “What?”

“Food. Or, something. What would you like to eat?”

There’s a flash in those eyes that Steve thinks looks like mischief before it fades. He wants it to come back, for the words to be said, thoughts to be shared.

“I’m on soups. So, whatever they have that isn’t too heavy. Maybe a smoothie, too? Smallest they can make.”

Steve nods and goes.

 

He’s decided to get them both smoothies. He isn’t quite sure what all is in them, but they smell delicious, and his has an added powder (thank you, T’Challa) for his serum enhanced metabolism.

He passes a sleeping Bruce and meditating Vision when he comes back through.

“Hello, Captain.”

“Vision.”

“I hope all is well.”

Sometimes, Steve forgets that Vision isn’t a human being. Or, isn’t naturally human. It’s in moments like these, when the android man watches unblinkingly, observing things that Steve and many of the others don’t see, that he is reminded of their very differences. Vision computes the world, translating it far differently than them. He’s also not very old. He may look like a man, but for all intents and purposes, he is still a youth. He is still learning new emotions, though the more basic have already rooted: contentment and discontentment, puzzlement, curiosity, desire, hope …

“It’s getting there, yeah.”

Vision nods and closes his eyes.

Bruce keeps snoring.

 

Tony isn’t in bed when he comes back. The sight of rumpled sheets and empty mattress shoot fire and ice down his spine. He slams the drinks down on the side table, frantically seeking the emergency remote when the flush of a toilet and the running of water sounds behind him.

He’s standing rigid and tall, remote clenched in a tightening fist, when the door to the en suite restroom opens.

“Steve… you okay?”

He isn’t. He should be, but he isn’t. He’s come to rely on Tony’s stationary presence. He knows where Tony is at all times: safe and secure and within easy medical reach. An empty bed means a missing Tony, and that means a hard to find Tony, who could be hurt and in need of assistance that no one is around to provide, because they left. _He_ left, and that’s unacceptable, and Tony needs to know, needs to know it matters, _he_ matters. Tony needs to know that they’re there. That it isn’t just him, alone. That they don’t want to just use him, that they all _care_. That Steve, Steve, he—

“I love you.”

Those caramel eyes widen, those chapped rosy lips open, but all that comes out is, “Oh.”

 

Tony didn’t ask him to leave. He’d just pushed past, climbed back onto the bed, and accepted the smoothie. They sat together, drinking their drinks until they both finished, and now they sit quietly. No tablet, no phone, no television. The oxygen mask sits at the bedside ready if needed, but many of the other monitors have been shut off.

“They’ve decided it should be safe for me to undergo targeted cradle treatments. You know, like the ones we did before, before Ultron.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve wishes it weren’t so awkward. Wishes he hadn’t—wishes he had better control.

“They’re hopeful that I’ll be able to get some nerve function back in the arm. Maybe not enough to really use it, but possibly enough to hook up a brace, similar to Rhodey’s. I have some internal designs I’m working on, but…”

He can’t believe it. Tony is sitting there, talking about restoring his nerve damage, shrugging off the absolutely amazing possibility that there is even this chance…

“You’re amazing,” and he _is_. Tony is marvelous, extraordinary. An astounding enigma of a man wrapped in flesh and curiosity and wonder.

And when he smiles, there isn’t anyone or anything nearly as beautiful as he is.

 

Steve and most of the other Avengers have to leave for a day. They’ve been called upon by T’Challa and the Council to help one of the local townships, and together, they work to finish clean-up and help with temporary relocation.

Steve personally thinks it may have been, if not entirely then in part, a diversionary tactic.

When they come back, the waiting area has been cleaned, most of the furniture removed, and T’Challa and Thor stand there waiting.

The panic swells within his chest.

“There is no need to fear, Captain, fellow Avengers. In fact, from what I have learned from our esteemed host, there may be cause for near future celebrations.”

“It is with a glad heart that I deliver the following news. Captain Rogers, do you wish to sit?”

It’s odd, Steve thinks, when others are more aware of your needs than you are. The last nearly five weeks— _It’s been longer than that, Steve_ —four years have been an extended phenomenon of experiencing the will and suggestions of others as a vicarious supplement of his own self-neglect. So, it’s with this in mind that he does, in fact, take T’Challa’s offer.

Wisely so.

“While you were all working today, news arrived on two fronts. First, as the last weeks have shown, we have been working to provide the best care for Dr. Stark during his recovery. Early this morning, he was deemed healthy enough to undergo the specialized cradle treatments offered by Dr. Cho and her assistants, who arrived this afternoon. The first treatment has shown promising results, and there will be a series of sessions to follow to see what progress can be made.”

Steve feels like a wire has been cut, his bones and muscle falling in on themselves to leave him a metaphorical puddle on the floor. They had talked briefly about it, the cradle. And, the idea in itself was amazing, _is_ amazing. But, he hadn’t known it would begin so quickly. And, he’d wanted to be there. Needed… he needed…

“Second,” T’Challa pauses, and here Thor smile grows ever larger. He is happy beyond doubt, “It is with great pleasure that I bring you your ‘tickets’ home.”

 

_Home._ An odd concept.

He remembers when he was taught that home should be a wife, two kids, a house, and a plot of land with a picket fence, and neighbors who cared and town to work in that made you feel like you belonged. That effort was worthwhile.

Now, though, the idea isn’t nearly as… appealing. Of course, with Peggy, he’d wanted nothing more than that. The ideal home. They’d have had beautiful kids, he thinks. A little girl and boy, growing up in the yard chasing a dog. Cats on the porch or in the house. Neighbors chatting about nothing and everything. One of them, him he’d thought, would go to work and the other play ‘at home.’

She’d have hated it.

Seventy years in the future with no way back to the past, Steve knows it’s nothing he’d ever want. At least, not like that.

_Home…_

‘Home’ is… he wants to say it’s the Avengers. Saving the world, righting wrongs. Justice, bravery, the honest way.

It isn’t.

His knees feel like Jello. Since T’Challa’s announcement, he hasn’t moved. The others have held conversations, gone to clean up, eaten together, relaxed. But, he’s sat here. Stuck between a state of awareness and catatonia.

_Home._

He loves his team, his family. Those who he’s become close enough with to call family, that is.

They’re a fractured bunch, glued back together by the bonds of warfare, as Thor would call it. Blood brothers. Soldiers.

_We are_ not _soldiers._

Warriors. Warriors of strength, of vision, of skill, of wit and device. Warriors on the battlefield and in the lab.

_You’re right, Tony. Not soldiers._

Not one of them is dispensable to their leader, nor their leader irredeemable to his team. At least, he’d like to hope for that.

Team. Family.

_Home_.

What is his home?

 

Home sleeps peacefully in a private medical quarter for the first time in thirty-one days. The large oxygen facemask has been replaced with a nasal cannula; the saturation lowered. Home’s breaths come deep and rhythmic, exhaled like a content sigh.

Home holds the offered hand even in sleep, squeezing periodically, reminding himself that the presence next to him hasn’t left.

Home turns towards him in sleep, a small smile across dry but healing chapped lips.

Home comes in the form of a wily, courageous, self-sacrificing genius of a man who gives of himself and asks nothing in return, who takes what the world throws at him, and carries the weight like Atlas, bearing the burden with strength not found in muscle and bulk alone.

Here, at Tony’s side, is _Home_.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Barnes waits until Steve exits the room before he takes the leap, and he knocks on the door.

“Come in. Who even knocks anymore—oh.”

Believe him, he knows it’s surprising, too. He and Stark haven’t spent more than twenty minutes in a room together, and never alone. The idea of it is discomforting, but if things between Stark and Steve keep progressing like they do, Barnes really wants to find a way to get them on decent footing; no matter how uncomfortable it makes him feel.

“Mind if I,” Barnes starts, “um, have a minute?”

Stark looks like he wants to say ‘no,’ but Barnes can see the moment he decides against it. It’s interesting to watch, bringing to mind the first time he and Stark faced each other in hand-to-hand, even if unwillingly. The way he’d looked when the gun came apart, quickly using it as a blunt weapon, only to be thrown back by the Soldier. Even then, without his suit of armor, the Iron Man stood ready to face the challenge. Steve’d said he’d _never_ back down.

_Steve does have a type._

“What can I do ya for, Sergeant Slushy?”

He’s not so surprised by the response as he is by the tone. Quick, witty, and confident: divert as defense.  Stark is a man who’s grown into his own skin, and if he hasn’t embraced his failings, he is at least aware of them. He’s chosen to be himself.

Barnes resolves to do the same.

“Well, first, you can make me a mug and a t-shirt with that printed on it. I’ll wear it every day. Rain or shine.”

“You’ll wear the shirt, every day?”

“No,” he chuckles, “the mug.”

Stark creases his brow, the light of mischief a glint in his eyes.

“Oh yeah? And, how will you wear this mug?”

It’s been a few years, but Buck thinks he’s still got his game. At least, his game is better than Stevie’s.

“Doll, you’ll have to convince me to find out,” he winks and pops his hip.

With the way Stark laughs, he’s sure he’s still got it.

 

His earlier assumptions were correct; he and Stark get on like two peas from the same pod. Any worries about holdovers from the past recede with each joke passed, question asked, and truth shared. Tony Stark is a man of second chances, hesitant to admit aloud when he’s wrong, but immediately active to make things right.

The more comfortable he is, the more of an insensitive asshole he seems. He says shit, then goes back and explains what he means, only to sound like more of an asshole, but less of a prick.

Bucky likes him. He’s not afraid to be himself, and Bucky doesn’t have to hesitate to reciprocate.

_“Call me Tony. None of that Mr. Stark or Stark bullshit.”_

_“Whatever you like.”_

They talk about whatever comes to mind. Memories of college in Tony’s case, and boot camp in Buck’s. They talk about past dates, parties, even travels abroad (many vague or incomplete in the soldier’s case). But, no matter how spotty the stories or questionable their pasts have been, it’s fun.

They’re laughing heavily when the question comes to mind.

“So, I know you’ve got game, but... how did you end up with someone like Colonel Rhodes?”

It’s meant to be funny. A kind of dig at Rhodes, since he knows Tony will tell him about it later. He doesn’t mean to pry, not into matters far more personal than those they’ve already shared, but he is curious and has been since meeting the man.

“You know, sometimes I wonder that, too.” Tony shifts in bed, pulling his legs up to cross them on the mattress. “Wanna join?”

“Is that an offer?”

“Merely an invitation, darling.”

He feels like if he smiles any harder it’ll rip the skin on his face. He isn’t sure if he _should_ join…

The mattress isn’t all that comfortable. It’s all right. Decent for longer sedentary stints like Tony has been subjected to, but not to someone like Bucky’s liking. If he’d been the one cooped-up in this space for as long as Tony has been—

“I can see why you’re a goddamn menace in the mornings here.”

Tony giggles and shrugs it off, “I’ve always hated mornings. Happens when you used to wake up hung-over more often than not.”

“Mmm.” Buck wriggles on the bed, back and forth, until he’s far enough up on it to cross his legs, too, and then the two of them are sitting there, together. Like children. “We look stupid.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“So, Rhodes?”

“Right. I don’t know.” Tony pauses to think, a hand scraping through his hair, readjusting the cannula on his face. “I was a kid in MIT. Wild, rich, flambuoyant. I spent cash like I snorted coke, and I drank as hard as I worked. I was almost always on something once I found out what drugs felt like, and one night, I’m getting the shit kicked out of me because I refused to pay more money than the coke was worth—and it wasn’t worth much—and out of nowhere this guy comes to help me, takes me to the hospital, and stays. We ended up roommates afterwards, and I curbed my use even if I didn’t stop.”

A kid getting the shit beat out of him, and Rhodes decided to stay.

_Like with Stevie_ , Bucky thinks. When there was no one else, they had each other.

Huh.

 

“I don’t remember falling as much as I remember waking up.”

They’ve been sitting together off and on for hours. Lunch has come and gone, and Bucky has started pacing the room. Steve has been out working with the crews since his summons by Rhodes. Buck has taken over watch, enjoying the time he’s been given.

The stories have changed. Deepened in their importance.

Bucky thinks this one matters.

“I remember feeling cold, then burning up. There was electric running down my spine and piercing into my brain, and my arm was gone but then wasn’t. It’s all a mess. I had already been dosed with a version of the serum back when Steve rescued us. It wasn’t until Hydra got hold of me again that they finished the process.

“I don’t know how much of me is left.”

A thin hand rests lightly on his shoulder.

“It’s all you, Barnes.”

 

“I was mostly awake when they put in the arc reactor… I woke in surgery. Felt when they cut in and- and…

“They kept me alive to build them bombs.

“I built my coffin instead.”

 

Darkness has fallen, and Steve should be back any minute. They’ve gotten comfortable together, sprawling so that their feet hang off one side of the bed and their heads off the other. They look like two kids, companionably sharing space for a common goal.

The door to the room swishes on its track; boots stopping feet within the doorway.

_Speak of the devil._

Bucky lifts his head the same time as Tony, and they turn to each other and smile.

“What have I gotten myself into?”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Rhodes called not too long ago asking to meet out on one of the palace terraces. With Tony feeling slightly better and deemed healthy enough to get up and move around within his space, Steve’s been reassured that all would be well for him to leave and ‘get some fresh air.’

For some reason, he doesn’t think this is a usual social call.

“I got your message. Anything I can help with?”

“Hopefully my sanity.”

Rhodes stands on the edge of the terrace, hands in his pockets and a faraway look on his face.

“I can’t make any promises.”

Dark brown eyes shift, the weight of their gaze landing heavily on Steve’s shoulders.

“Then can you make this one: I want to get things ready for Tones, back in the States. With the military demanding my attention, I don’t know how much of what I want to do I’ll be _able_ to do.”

“You won’t be doing it alone.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

 

They’re working together to put up new framing, carrying supplies to and fro as directed by the Wakandan recovery team leaders. Rhodes uses the War Machine armor to lift and fly materials to workers higher in the growing structures while Steve works the ground. Somewhere, he’s sure that Sam and Clint and Natasha are doing more delicate interior work.

Thoughts of Tony flit through his mind throughout the day. He wonders how he’s doing, what treatments are being done. He’s confident in his belief that Tony is likely bored out of his mind and becoming a menace, and he feels for the nurses who have to deal with the resulting chaos. Then, Steve also worries that maybe Tony isn’t as well as the med-team evaluated. What if something does go wrong? What if Steve isn’t—

“Stop fretting, soldier boy.” Steve stumbles from the colonel’s heavy push, fumbling with the sacks he carries. Rhodes’s facemask pops up, revealing white teeth and a playful smile. “You’re worse than my mom when Tony’d come, oh.”

The smile drops from his face and Steve’s guilt turns in his gut. Always stepping where he shouldn’t, like the bumbling oaf he often assumes people see.

Rhodes uses the suit’s strength to take the heavy sacks from Steve’s grasp. They aren’t really heavy to the soldier, and the loss of their weight feels like untethering from shore.

“You know they’d call us if something went wrong, right?”

He knows.

“Look, Steve. I get it. I worry all the time about him. About what I can do to help him. The bastard hands out money like candy on Halloween, but won’t take what’s offered to him. I always worry if I’ll be able to do my part.”

“Tony loves you.” There’s an integral part inside Steve that feels the need to reassure. It’s the same piece of himself that finds a conviction and sticks to it, that refuses to budge when a decision is made. It’s the same piece that often gets him in trouble when he least needs it. “You know he’d never hold anything against you.”

“He never does.”

 

They’re walking back to the palace together. Rhodes could easily fly them both back, but the weather is nice, the wind cool against their sweaty faces, and , at least Steve doesn’t yet wish to end their time together. The day has been fruitful in work and in conversation, but something in him tells him it’s not over yet.

“Pepper should be calling you soon.”

“When’d you get to talk to her?”

“Today.” Rhodes grunts as he bends to move a fallen branch out of their path. “She called the armor while I was flying around. Said she had an alternative to rattling around that old mansion alone.”

The flush of shame burns like repulsors to flesh.

“You read that…”

“Hell yeah I did. Though, Tony doesn’t know. Friday sent me a digital transcript.”

They stop in the path, Steve with his head hanging low and Rhodes with hands on hip, breathing in and out systematically. Steve doesn’t blame him for his anger; he never should have sent it.

“I won’t lie; I want to punch you. Hard. But, I’m not going to. See, the way I see this is like this: You fucked up, royally. So did Tony. I knew that; Pepper knew that; hell, I’m sure almost the whole team knew it. You two didn’t talk. Not when it mattered.

“Now, everything fell apart. Those of us left got back together to save the universe, and it still didn’t make that much of a difference in the end because the same person who warned us that something was coming. The same person who told us we needed to prepare. The _same_ person who _did_ prepare, and when the voices telling him he was paranoid and wasting his life finally came through, and he decided to step back, the world fell apart worse than even he had expected…”

With every word, every inflection and emphasis and sharp intonation, the hook in Steve’s heart tugs. He knows this. He’s thought this. _Felt_ this. He deserves whatever comes.

But, when Rhodes takes a deep breath, releasing slowly, calmly, it never comes.

“We all made mistakes. And, when you left, that’s when we started to realize how big those mistakes were.”

“I won’t leave again.”

“And, I’m holding you to that, Rogers. No matter what happened, you’re here right now. Whatever happens next, you make sure to at least try talking it out before you take your ass off somewhere, because if I find out you haven’t, I swear that an ass-kicking by me in _or_ out of the suit will be the least of your worries.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

 

She calls right as Steve approaches the lobby outside Tony’s room. It’s getting late into the night, and he isn’t sure if Tony will be awake or asleep, so he stays further away in order to not accidentally disturb him.

“Hello, Steve.”

“Good evening, Miss Potts.”

She has a laugh that rings like bells when she lets it go. It’s beautiful and calming.

“I’ll let it slide. Besides, I only have a few minutes.”

“Apologies, Pepper.”

“It is what it is,” there’s a minute pause where Steve imagines she waves her hand to dismiss his words, and it makes him smile. There are some things that you can’t help but to pick-up from those you spend a lot of time with. “Listen. There’s a house that’ll be ready for move-in by the time Tony is released from hospital. It’s secluded, with lots of room. It has a garage-workshop area, large porch and a fireplace. Two stories. On land with woods, a creek, and some fields…”

“Why- why are you telling me this?”

“Because, Steve,” Pepper sighs, “Tony deserves to be happy…”

“But, why—“

“And, so do you.”

 

He doesn’t know what he expects to see when the door opens, but what he does see, isn’t it.

The lights are bright, there’s music playing from somewhere, likely a phone, in the room, and when he doesn’t move, two unruly brunettes wearing identical shit-stirring grins pop-up.

“What have I gotten myself into?”

 

Apparently, they’ve spent almost the whole day together, and nothing exploded and no one died.

Steve doesn’t know if he should be impressed or afraid.

“So, you’ve had fun? Both of you?”

“Definitely.”

“Not at all.”

_Jesus._

 

Bucky stays with them another hour or so before Natasha has poked her head in and he grunts and gruffs about curfews and pseudo-parents and “why, Nat? I was just beginning to like these two assholes.”

It isn’t until the door slides entirely shut that the tears begin to fall.

“Steve? Steve, why are you—what—don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

_Because_ , his heart speaks, _I could have had this all along._

 

Tony doesn’t start falling asleep until morning approaches. He’d been chatty and wanted to know everything Steve did during the day. When Steve’s stories weren’t long enough, Tony’d shared his about Bucky.

Bucky’s memories are spotty but returning. There are some that Tony talked about that included Steve, and what he didn’t know, Steve filled in. When Steve recalled something particularly mischievous or some trouble-making he and Bucky did together, Tony’s surprise made him smile.

“You two were original Weasleys.”

He wasn’t entirely certain what Tony was talking about, but the name sounds familiar and he’s pretty sure he’d agree. Yes, they were naughty brats.

Now, he sets bedside, stroking smooth fingers over fragile skin. Tony’s not yet asleep, but his eyes are shut, and he has flipped his right arm over to give Steve better access to the more sensitive places. There’s the beginnings of a contented grin as he basks in the attention.

“You know,” Steve rumbles low, hesitant to disturb the quiet peace, “Rhodes summoned me yesterday.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“I don’t think I told you, but, he put me in my place.”

The grin widens, “That’s my Rhodeybear.”

“Tony,” the man lifts an eyebrow at Steve’s tone, “look at me, please.”

He doesn’t mean to taint this tranquil moment, but he needs to know.

He waits until those eyes like whiskey and caramel focus, until they see how serious he really is.

“You do know I’m not leaving again, right?”

The silence alone isn’t answer enough, but when Tony looks away…

 

It’s awkward for the next few days. They coexist. Eating meals together when they can. Steve takes Tony on a walk (a ride in Tony’s case) around the palace and the grounds. They talk about books and shows, movies and plays –Steve finds out what Tony meant by ‘Weasleys’ and definitely agrees—art Steve enjoys and technology Tony aspires to create. Together they fill as much of the silence as they can, but there still feels to be a lot left unsaid. Seconds where they should say things and don’t.

_Talk to him._

Steve can’t. He doesn’t know where to start.

 

He’s sitting by the room’s window drawing the picture of Sam asleep from a few weeks ago. Tony has been reformatting the Falcon wings, debugging old SHIELD programming. He’d seemed so immersed in what he’s been doing that when Steve hears his voice whisper across the expanse of the room, he’s surprised.

“Steve,” the soldier pauses in his erasing, lifting his palm from the paper to prevent smearing. Tony’s eyes are glistening. He looks lost.

“Tony, are you—“

It’s tentative, quiet, but quick, “I do love you.”

The words have to sink in. He should be elated, joyous. ‘Dancing on rooftops’ happy.

Then, why does it hurt?

 

_It never lasts._

The memory appears later that night, as Tony is put under for another but more extreme session with the cradle treatment.

_It never lasts._

He’s afraid, Steve realizes. Time and experience have taught him not to hope for things unattainable. Tony believes he’s a man given a second chance in order to pay penance for the sins he committed.

But, Steve doesn’t agree.

As he watches Dr. Cho pass the cradle arm from Tony’s scarred shoulder to elbow, hopes high for the arm’s rehabilitation, the path is made clear.

Tony believes he’s damaged, replaceable. Unworthy of greater things, or too much to handle when given the opportunity of more.

Steve resolves to convince him otherwise.

 

 

 

** Epilogue **

It’s been forty days. Forty days and nights of heartache and pain, of hope and disappointment, of dreams and nightmares. Forty days and nights of what ifs and should haves, of reminiscence and understanding. A trial by fire, cold as ice, that felt as vast as the Afghani deserts and as heavy as the pressure of ocean waters.

Together, they slowly walk down the Quinjet’s ramp and out into the shining sun.

Steve hasn’t been by to see the house or the property yet. There’s woods surrounding the landing spot; the trees that were cut to make the space pushed off to the side for further chopping.

Even from the back, Steve can tell the house is something else.

“This place is gorgeous, Tony.”

The man on his arm shuffles a bit, his jeans brushing together as he finds his footing.

“Well, it’s only the back but… Yeah. I wanted to find something similar to Barton’s place. He’s going to claim I copied him, but I actually asked for Laura’s opinion, so, technically, I copied her.”

As they walk around, Steve relishes the smell of freshly mowed grass. There must have been rain recently, too. The soil smells fresh and gives like it’s only partially dry. The scent of ozone lingers in the air.

“I think Thor must’ve come by,” he says.

“Considering it wasn’t supposed to rain this week, I’d say that’s a good assumption.”

Tony’s favorite Audi is in the gravel driveway with Steve’s bike parked right beside it. They look shiny, freshly waxed.

“I swear Happy and Rhodey look for reasons to drive that damn car.”

Steve chuckles low. It feels good.

“Who do you think brought the bike?” Steve asks.

“Definitely Barnes. If he didn’t carry it, then he definitely took it for a joyride, and I can’t picture him passing the opportunity to drive that classic down these old county roads.”

Steve hums. “You know. They probably raced them.”

“Oh god,” Tony groans. “Don’t give me a heart attack. I’m too young to die like that.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but Steve stiffens anyway. His grip must tighten too because Tony is apologizing, saying something about how that wasn’t funny, he’s sorry, focus _. It’s gonna be okay_.

“It’s all right, Steve. I’m sorry. Look at me. I’m fine. Shitty joke, I know. I’m sorry, I—“

“It’s, it’s okay. I’m okay. Just,” he breathes, “took me a minute.”

A callused hand brushes his cheek, thumb tapping the corner of his lips, and he turns, pressing against the cool palm.

“You know, I originally bought this house as a surprise for Pepper.”

“I know.”

“She hates being in the country.”

Steve grins, “I know.”

“You know everything. Shut up. I’m making a point.”

He loves when Tony’s like this. Sassy, straight-forward, bossy. “I’ll be quiet. Go on.”

“Ass,” he grumbles. The hand trails softly over Steve’s throat, taps against his sternum, and drops to grab his left hand. “I bought this house, telling myself it was for someone I knew would hate it. I saw what Barton had and wondered, ‘huh, maybe that could work.’ But, I’m me. How could I ever get something like this to work like that?—”

He tugs Steve’s hand and pulls, suggesting they keep going.

“—It couldn’t.”

He wants to protest; instead, Steve remains quiet and watches him move. Tony’s slower than before, and he has an intermittent limp, but he’s still graceful in his own way. Upright posture with beautiful lines down his spine to the curve of his—

“I never intended to use this house for myself.”

“Who were you thinking of, then?”

Pearly white teeth shine in summer sun; his eyes burn bright like liquid gold.

“You.”

There’s a banner welcoming them home as they walk into the foyer. A rack with a few pairs of their more commonly worn shoes sits by the entrance with space available to stack the ones they currently have on as well as a few guests.

Tony’s removing his shoes, but Steve is too enthralled by what surrounds him.

There’s pictures hanging in frames along the walls. Wallpaper and prints classic and modern mix flawlessly to create a comfortably immersive experience.

And, this is just the foyer.

Steve kicks his shoes off, lightly brushes by Tony while being considerate of their innate physical differences.

He goes through the living room, the kitchen, the dining. He looks in on the downstairs bathroom and runs up the stairs to the second floor. Pictures and decorations are everywhere.

Photos from Steve’s retrieved belongings. From Peggy and the Carters. There’s photos of the team, few of them all together, but many of moments of groups of two or three. After their first battle and their Shwarma dinner. Post-sceptre retrieval missions. The party before the Ultron event. There’s pictures of Pepper and Rhodey and Happy. Peter and his friends, too. Another kid that Steve thinks may be the once-mentioned Harley along with his sister and mother. There’s the whole Barton group, some with Clint and one or two without. There’s even a few of Tony and Rhodey when they were younger.

There are so many. Albums worth systematically and tastefully distributed throughout the house.

Steve stops when he gets to the closed bedrooms’ doors.

He turns around and automatically reaches out as he hears Tony’s steps on the stairwell.

“I got it. I’m tired, not decrepit. Sheesh.”

He stands gripping thin arms, easing his hold on the left braced limb. Just because his body feels distant doesn’t excuse the possibility of causing harm.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

Their very close together like this. Steve has to look down to keep eye contact. He’s floating. If this is euphoria, he never wants it to stop. It’s freeing. His limbs feel loose and tight all at once. Blood rushes through his veins but no roar overwhelms his senses. He’s here and not all at once.

Tony’s gaze flits back and forth, then down and back up, and down and up again. The tip of his tongue glistens as it wets chapped lips, leaving behind a shine that calls Steve’s name.

“Kiss me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I truly interested in your thoughts. What was liked, disliked? How was the format? I know it was slower, but did it work?
> 
> Also, I know very little about medicine. But, I did do some research and exaggerated and skewed some purposefully. I'm sorry, any medical people out there. Truly.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
